


Bubble Sky, Floating Orb

by Dumbothepatronus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alien Invasion, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Apocalypse, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Harry Potter, POV Male Character, Post-Hogwarts, Starry Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dumbothepatronus/pseuds/Dumbothepatronus
Summary: Harry fumbles through the mental fog and peers out through eyes he can't control. He might be helpless now, but not for long. As soon as he regains control of his body, these aliens will regret their attempt to take over the world.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Bubble Sky, Floating Orb

The most surprising thing about the apocalypse was its lack of bubble solution. Toilet paper, produce, and meat shortages? Those made perfect sense. Just because Harry’s body was occupied by an alien didn’t mean it didn’t have to eat. But every time his feet, driven by a mind not his own, stopped in front of the outdoor play section of the ASDA and sighed at the sight of an empty shelf, Harry pushed past the ever-present mental fog and rolled his eyes. Or at least he would have, if he still could.

It wasn’t until Harry managed to stay present until twilight that he understood.

It had been weeks before he had any conscious thoughts at all. Weeks of near-nonexistence, huddled in the back of his own mind as his body was steered by its alien host. 

In his last memories of the pre-apocalypse, the leaves were green and the air sultry. He’d been in the back garden with Ginny, sipping on Butterbeer and staring, mesmerized, at glittering stars in the midnight-blue sky. Then they came. First the round beacons of light, so bright they outshone the stars—then the blue clouds of swirling smoke. If Luna had been around, Harry imagined she might have thought they were Nargles. 

Whatever they were, they were hypnotizing. Seductive. 

Before he could blink, the mist rushed in through his nostrils and sent him floating. Floating, falling, drifting, until he’d awoken to empty supermarket shelves, golden autumn leaves, and no control over anything.

But not for long.

No, Harry Potter would not allow his body to be occupied much longer. 

For one, he was almost certain the mental divide was mutual. He couldn’t hear the alien’s thoughts, and the alien couldn’t hear him, either. Otherwise, he doubted the public service announcements that played constantly over the television would be necessary. If the aliens had access to their host’s memories, they wouldn’t need to be taught the purpose of a towel. Also, they probably would have known what to do with the wands.

They were like pureblood wizards in the Muggle world. Useless. Helpless. Ignorant. But unlike the purebloods, they strived to learn. 

The more they learned, the harder it would be to reclaim the earth, so Harry needed to move.

Being occupied by a foreign host felt very much like a super-powered Imperius curse. Fortunately, overthrowing the Imperius was a Harry Potter speciality. 

The sky darkened; it was time for the nightly routine. Harry’s feet ambled into the backyard, followed by Ginny’s glassy-eyed, hollow shell. They stood two feet apart, hands clasped, and stared up at the sky. They didn’t have any bubbles, but the neighbor kids did. So they watched as streams of soapy glass floated up into the sky in wisps and swirls, streaming towards the yellow beacons of light that overshadowed what had once been a sky filled with stars. 

It was a visual reminder, intentional or not, of the painting with which the aliens had replaced their wedding portrait. He assumed it had meaning to the creatures—a religious or cultural ritual that brought them together and reminded them of home. Well, Harry and his friends could come together, too. He would get his body back, help the others regain theirs, and then they’d form an uprising. Usurp the parasite reign right in front of their vacant stares.

Once the bubbles ceased to stream, his body trekked to the living room, pressed its hand against the reproduction of Van Gogh’s Starry Night and whispered, “Bubble sky, floating orb.” 

It must have been a password, an “all-clear" signal to the mothership. When his body visited his neighbors, or the severe-looking woman around the corner, he noticed that their living rooms bore the same painting.

Every day since he’d awoken to this nightmare, his mental presence had strengthened. He might have been an impulsive youth, but years of Auror discipline had cured him of his tendency to rush into situations he didn’t understand. So every day, he waited and observed. Every day, he plotted and planned. If he messed this up, he doubted he’d get a second chance.

But tonight was the night. He’d been present all day, and the oppressive mental fog was a distant memory. He watched, clinging tight to his patience, as the alien steered his body into bed and slid under the covers next to Ginny. The atmosphere went still; silent. New Earth was eerie at night. 

It was difficult to tell when the alien’s consciousness fell into slumber. Harry counted his body’s breaths per second, the number of times his hand twitched and his head turned. When the twitches stopped and the breath flowed evenly, he steeled himself.

Magic bubbled within his veins. He might not be able to blink his eyelids or twitch his pinky toe, but it seemed his magic connected to his soul rather than his body. He gathered it, a ball of raw power, until he feared his heart might explode from its force. Then, with a mighty push, he shoved past the barrier between his mind and his brain.

The alien exited his body like breath; a cloud of midnight smoke. It called to him, soft, sweet and seductive; but Harry shook his head. This was an Imperius. A spell to fight off. He shut his eyes and scrambled for his wand, still abandoned on his nightstand. 

“Evanesco!”

He peeked one eye open, but the smoke remained.

“Reducto!”

Nothing. Time for ‘plan C’.

“Accio bottle.” 

An empty milk bottle flew through the darkness. Harry caught it before it could bang on the wall and wake his sleeping, body-snatched wife.

“Coge Intrare.” Harry sighed in sweet, sweet relief. As if driven by a breeze, the bottle filled with the smoky alien, and Harry screwed the lid on. Carefully, so as not to make the bed squeak, he rolled off the mattress. If “Ginny” found the jar, everything would be lost. 

He crept down the hall, avoiding the television and the tattle-tale painting. He couldn’t give it the chance to report his suspicious activities.

On the top of the stairs, on a wooden pedestal, sat a marble bust of Remus Lupin. He tapped Lupin’s nose with his wand and whispered, “Mischief managed.” The wall behind the bust swung open to reveal an attic room with sloping ceilings. Harry tip-toed inside and placed the alien bottle next to his invisibility cloak. 

Back in the bedroom, with the secret room firmly locked, he slipped back into bed like nothing was wrong. Today, he’d saved himself. Tomorrow would be Ginny’s turn.

* * *

  
  


The next day lasted a thousand years. These aliens, despite their attempts to recreate earth culture, were painfully boring. The newscaster did a daily PSA that all essential workers were to report to their jobs for their assigned time slots. He could only assume that the invaders, not understanding magic, had deemed Harry Potter’s Auror career to be nonessential, because his alien-steered body had never visited the Ministry. 

It mostly stared at the telly, stared at the grocery store’s sporadically stocked shelves, and sat cross-legged in the grass, Ginny by his side. Anxiety bubbled in Harry’s stomach. He could do this. For one day, he could pretend he needed to learn to fold a T-shirt. He sunk into the couch and flipped on the tv.

“You may have noticed these boxes of hard shells in your pantries or grocery stores. These items are called ‘pastas’. They are an excellent source of calories for your human hosts. To cook the pastas--”

Harry let his eyes go glassy and searched through his mental catalog of Auror experiences to scrape together a plan. 

It was suffocating, but he did everything his body normally did. He even ate the horrifying Brussels sprouts Ginny always boiled, perhaps because it reminded her alien of home or perhaps because fresh vegetables were scarce. He had to fight to smooth his face, to temper his gag reflex, but at least he was in control now. Swallowing the things, tasting their bitterness cling to his tongue, powerless to stop it, had been torture. He might still have to eat them, but he wasn’t forced to savor them.

When night fell, he stared at the soap bubbles swirling through the sky. He turned to Ginny, searched her eyes for any sign of her soul. All he saw was dusky brown and sanitized glass—none of her fire, none of her tenacity. But not for long. When the ceremony ended, he followed her inside and whispered to the painting, “bubble sky, floating orb.” 

Tonight, he’d get her back. Tonight, he’d reignite those empty sockets and fill them with the woman he loved. Tonight he’d awaken Ginny; tomorrow the world.

“Sed Creverunt!” Harry knelt on the mattress over Ginny’s sleeping body, his wand outstretched over her racing broom pajamas. His heart raced as deep blue smoke blew from her nostrils. 

“Coge Intrare.” He screwed Ginny’s captor into the empty pickle jar he’d found in the spare cupboard. 

“Ginny. Ginny?” He gently shook her arm, and for fifteen heart-stopping seconds, her lashes remained resting against her cheeks. What if her soul was lost? What if she didn’t wake? Would he be the only conscious human, doomed to roam the grave of this captive earth? “Ginny? Wake up. Please wake up.”

Her eyelashes fluttered and hope soared through Harry’s heart. But her eyes were glazed, unfocused when she cracked them open and stared at him through the yellow light of the looming motherships.

“Harry?” she finally asked. “What’s happening? I feel so foggy.”

“Oh, Ginny.” He threw his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. She was alive. She was ok. “You’re here. Thank Merlin.” 

* * *

One snowy Saturday, Harry was surprised with the sight of bubble solution on the supermarket shelf.

It seemed the aliens had finally figured out how to keep it in supply, despite the outrageous demand. Their priorities were adorable. They were so focused on silly things like the proper use of a shower poof and the most effective method of peeling oranges, they’d missed the coup happening in their own backyards.

Two bottles of bubbles made it into Harry’s basket: one for him, and one for Ginny. Tonight, for the first time since their awakening, they’d take part in the ceremony. And with any luck, by the time their bottles ran dry, they’d have no more need of them.

Later, when the bubbles were memories across the sky, after Harry and Ginny had each spoken their whispers to the artwork nanny-cam, after the city had grown quiet with sleep—a rap sounded at the door. Though expected, the sound never failed to send thrills up Harry’s spine.

Ron arrived first, under a disillusionment charm, with Hermione sneaking in seconds after. Harry sent him to the secret room—the war room—and waited by the front door. Before midnight, a small army was crammed between the attic’s bookshelves, speaking in rushed whispers in the ever-present light of the spaceship moon.

Harry shut the door, quiet as a bubble popping, and the room stilled. “Let’s hear from Ron first. How’s the infiltration effort?” 

Ron was the strategist, the head chess master. Through his canny planning, they’d revived the remainder of the Order of the Phoenix and more.

A series of hisses, the quietest applause, broke out over the room as Ron stepped forward. “Luna has successfully transferred the occupied bottles to the Department of Mysteries. It’s as we hoped—the aliens haven’t discovered the Ministry.”

Bill whispered, “It’s a shame we can’t all just move in. I hate living like an alien. They’re duller than rocks.”

Ron’s form, dark in the midnight light, shrugged. “Not much longer, Bill. If each wizard contains ten aliens per night, Britain will be liberated by New Year’s. If our international contacts do the same, the aliens don’t stand a chance.” He turned, sweeping his arms towards the rest of the room. “Does everyone have their weekly report?”

The soft sound of papers rustling drowned out any further whispers as Hermione recorded the names of the newest free-agents. 

  
  


As the resistance grew, the bubbles continued. The aliens never suspected a thing—not until every name in Britain had been added to Hermione’s list, scrawled in her tidy handwriting. Not until their worldwide ambassadors had given them the all-clear signal. A few minor setbacks, a few near stumbles and near-misses, had set the world’s recovery back several months, so that the daffodils bloomed and the cherry trees overflowed with white blossoms. 

But today, this lovely spring day, the world would perform a ceremony of its own. 

In the city square, as the sun dipped towards the horizon, stood thousands of humans. Muggles and wizards alike, with fire in their eyes and paintings in their arms. Tonight, there would be no bubbles swirling across the sky. No passwords would be whispered into paintings. 

Instead, there would be smoke. Smoke from the bonfire of thousands of copies of Van Gogh’s masterpiece would fill the sky, and it would be lovely to behold.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my team for beat'ing this fic for me.
> 
> And thank you to YOU for reading it--I'd love to hear your thoughts!


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